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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23020246">my avatar, my avatar, my avatar and me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceruleancats/pseuds/ceruleancats'>ceruleancats</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Comedy, Crack, Gen, Humor, canon-typical basira having the only brain cell, sorry this has no actual relation to mbmbam i just like the rhythm of the title, takes place early s4 before melanie gets the bullet out of her leg, yes i know melanie and martin were never technically avatars but shhhhhh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:01:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,595</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23020246</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceruleancats/pseuds/ceruleancats</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Basira just wants to finish reading one goddamn book. But with Daisy and Tim gone, Elias in jail, and Peter obviously just a figment of Martin's overactive imagination, she's stuck wrangling several avatars and dealing with all the wonderful perks of being the only sane person in the Archives.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>(slightly implied pining), Basira Hussain &amp; Jonathan Sims, Basira Hussain &amp; Melanie King, Martin Blackwood &amp; Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>125</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>my avatar, my avatar, my avatar and me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I was just thinking one day about how Basira had to deal with three different people who were either avatars or well on their way at the beginning of season 4, and I was like. What if I made this a meme. So please enjoy, and understand what Basira has to put up with on a day to day basis.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Basira, have you seen my stapler?” Jon called through the half-open door to his office.</p><p>Basira sighed deeply and laid the book she was trying to read on her desk. This was the third office implement he had asked after this morning. Her and the rest of the surviving Archives staff’s brilliant idea to borrow a probably-dead man’s office supplies to avoid having to leave the basement to get more of everything was now backfiring spectacularly. “Why don’t you just Know where it is?” she said through her teeth, valiantly restraining herself from throwing her own stapler across the office at his face.</p><p>“I thought you didn’t want me using my—abilities. If I recall correctly, yesterday you threatened to dump your tea on my head when I told you I Knew you accidentally added salt instead of sugar.”</p><p>A perfectly reasonable reaction, in Basira’s opinion, but he did have a point. “Alright, fine. Melanie has it, I think. You’ll have to ask her.”</p><p>Jon stared at Melanie’s currently empty desk with clear trepidation. “...Right.”</p><p>Conversation over, Basira went back to the book, and made about a minute’s worth of progress before Melanie stalked into the Archives. She didn’t look mad or anything (no more than usual, at least); Basira had hypothesized that was just how Slaughter avatars walked everywhere, based on her sample size of one. </p><p>Jon poked his head out of his office and stepped gingerly over to where Melanie had sat down at her desk and kicked up her feet. “Hello Melanie, Basira indicated that you might have my stapler from when I was dead. May I please have it back?” He smiled at her, and it almost didn’t look pained.</p><p>Melanie stared at him for a good five seconds like she was shocked Jon had the gall to politely ask for his own property back. Then she snatched the stapler from her desk and, in one swift motion, broke it in half with her bare hands. She dropped the jagged metal pieces on the ground directly in front of Jon, who was amazingly poker-faced. “No. Fuck you,” she said calmly, if your definition of calm was the eye of a raging hurricane.</p><p>“I Know you have another stapler, and that you took mine because you hate me,” said Jon disdainfully, raising one terrible eyebrow in his powerful You Are Beneath Me glare (to which Basira was immune because she had happened to listen to a tape where he interacted with a cat, and literally none of his intimidation tactics were strong enough to overcome that). “I was simply trying to be nice.”</p><p>“You don’t know me, bitch,” said Melanie venomously, finally taking her legs off the desk and standing up to her full height, which was hilariously several centimeters taller than Jon. </p><p>“Unfortunately, I really do.”</p><p>“Could you both do me a favor and shut up so I can finish reading this book?” Basira interjected, already bored of this argument, iterations of which had occurred practically every day since Jon had woken up from being dead. </p><p>“Why don’t you ask Melanie to shut up?” said Jon irritably, at the same time Melanie said, “Why don’t you ask Jon to shut up?”</p><p>They glared at each other. Melanie, to her clear chagrin, had to look away after a few seconds under the sheer eviscerating weight of Jon’s gaze. One of the only upsides of being a full-fledged avatar of the Eye was apparently being the undisputed champion of staring contests. Basira briefly contemplated the merits of avatarhood for a perk like that — not that she was impressed or anything. Just, you know. Having a stare like that could be useful, for professional purposes, of course.</p><p>Melanie made an unintelligible growl that might have been a curse and kicked one of the stapler pieces at the wall, where it embedded itself in the wainscoting. “This isn’t over,” she said darkly, stalking back out of the Archives, probably to go throw the butter knives in the kitchen (or at least that was Basira’s guess as to why all of them were covered in plaster dust whenever she tried to make toast and also why the wall of the kitchen was riddled with tiny, skinny holes). </p><p>Jon smirked a bit, but it faded when he looked down at the twisted pieces of the argument’s catalyst and seemed to realize the cost of his temporary victory over Melanie. “Basira… may I borrow your stapler?”</p><p>— </p><p><i>Thunk</i>, went <i>something</i> near Jon’s office, sounding suspiciously like Melanie’s knife burying itself in the insulation. Basira elected to ignore it, swiftly grabbing her noise-canceling headphones from her bag. Before she could get them around her head, though, she heard an earsplitting screech also from Jon’s office. </p><p>“What was <i>that</i>?” came Jon’s voice, loud, indignant, and rather terrified, through the open door to his office. Basira valiantly put the headphones back down on her desk, donned her Melanie-Proof Stab Vest, which she had been getting an entirely inordinate amount of use out of these past weeks, and cautiously approached the office. </p><p>“There was a spider by your head,” Melanie was saying flatly from the doorway. “Oh damn, looks like it’s still there.” She pulled another large knife out of her combat boot (which Basira could have sworn was physically impossible, given the size of the knife versus the size of the boot — was that some kind of Slaughter power?) and aimed for where a spider was indeed hanging unharmed on the wall a few centimeters from the first knife. </p><p>Jon looked over his shoulder, jumped about a meter at the sight of the innocent arachnid, and fell over sideways in his chair in a desperate scramble away from it. “<i>Stop</i>! No more knives! Also your aim is awful!” Jon said hastily, skittering towards the door like, well, a frightened spider. He ducked under Melanie’s outstretched knife-aiming arm and fled from the office. </p><p>“Mother<i>fucker</i>, I told you never to compel me!” Melanie snarled, momentarily frozen in place by the force of Jon’s command.</p><p>“I’m sorry!” Jon said, somewhat genuinely from behind Basira, wisely on his way out of the Archives before Melanie could break from the compulsion and put a knife slightly closer to his head.</p><p>“Melanie, <i>seriously</i>?” Basira said, calmly and soothingly. </p><p>Melanie growled back at her unintelligibly, though Basira thought she caught the phrase “shit fucking goddamn bitch of a greasy rat man.” </p><p>Basira sighed and patted Melanie on the shoulder gingerly, stretching her arm to keep her body as far out of stabbing range as possible (despite the ultra-grade strength of Basira’s Stab Vest, Melanie had been known to put knives all the way through things like load-bearing steel beams, so Basira didn’t exactly want to risk getting too close). “Condolences. Compulsion sucks, I know.”</p><p>Melanie sucked in a violent breath and strained, motionless for a second, before something in the air snapped like a rubber band and she jerked forward, stabbing the knife into Jon’s desk to keep herself from falling forward. “FUCK.”</p><p>She yanked the knife back out, leaving yet another hole in the Swiss cheese-looking surface of the desk (Melanie was quite fond of taking her anger at Jon out on his desk, as he was surprisingly good at escaping her wrath), then grabbed the one from the wall and pulled it out with ease, tucking both back into her boots in a somewhat physics-defying way. She straightened back up and turned around to glare at Basira. “What’re you looking at?” </p><p>Basira just shrugged, knowing better than to provoke Melanie further at a time like this. Melanie rolled her eyes and shouldered past Basira towards the door to the Archives with a grunt. </p><p>Basira shared a commiserating look with the wall spider and considered the merits of taking a leaf out of Martin’s book and pledging herself to the Lonely so she would never have to interact with anyone in the Archives ever again.</p><p>—</p><p>Martin was there when Basira and Melanie stepped into the kitchen for lunch, which was somewhat of a rarity. And even more unusually, he didn’t immediately dissolve into fog when he noticed they were there. In fact, all he did was nod at them firmly and go back to fiddling with whatever was in his hands, which seemed to be a...bag of crisps?</p><p>Basira cleared her throat, but Melanie opened her mouth before Basira could say anything. </p><p>“What are you doing, exactly? Do you need help opening that package of crisps?” she asked, not unkindly.</p><p>Martin hunched in on himself, pale cheeks going immediately bright pink. “Er—no, I’m just, erm, looking at the nutrition facts,” he said, extremely unconvincingly. </p><p>Melanie cocked her head at him. “I can help you open it,” she said eagerly, pulling a knife the length of a sword out of — somewhere, fast enough that Basira couldn’t see where it came from. She extended the blade at him in a way she probably thought looked inviting, but in reality appeared as if she was seconds from disemboweling poor Martin. </p><p>Martin squeaked in understandable fear and vanished instantly into a large bank of fog, dropping the packet of crisps on the ground. </p><p>“Melanie,” Basira said chidingly.</p><p>“Damn, I was just trying to help,” she said, somewhat irritably.</p><p>“Maybe next time don’t point giant sword knives at people you’re trying to help.”</p><p>“Ah, right,” Melanie said, nodding contemplatively like this was the first time Basira had said something like that and not the 27th (yes, Basira was keeping count). </p><p>Out of nowhere, a wave of deep despair washed over Basira, leaving her feeling utterly alone and forsaken by anyone who had ever loved her. She looked down at her feet and groaned. The fog Martin had left behind had crawled across the kitchen and was lapping hungrily at her ankles. “Great,” she said dryly. “I’ll get the extension cord, you get the box fans?”</p><p>—</p><p>Jon was looming in the hallway again. Jon was looming in the hallway over another person, actually, which was not ideal. Basira approached calmly, ignoring the searingly all-consuming gaze that flayed her to the bone and impassively laid bare her every tiny thought and feeling and impulse. </p><p>“Jon,” she said firmly, tapping him on the shoulder. He whipped around instantly, staring deep into her eyes. Static crackled angrily against her tongue, and she felt the irresistible urge to spill her entire life story. “This is the third researcher you’ve accosted this week,” she said instead, nodding at the man cowering in front of him. “We’ve been over this. Don’t make me get the broom.”</p><p>Jon blinked, for the first time since he’d looked at her, and shook his head like a wet dog. The compulsion and oppressive feeling of being Watched evaporated. “Ah……..Basira, my apologies. I-It won’t happen again, I promise.” </p><p>Basira nodded shortly and grabbed his arm. “Come on, let’s go,” she said, tilting her head in acknowledgement at the researcher, who was now collapsed against the wall and sobbing. </p><p>“Next time, no warning. I’m just going to start carrying the broom around with me,” Basira said conversationally as she towed Jon down the hallway towards the Archives. </p><p>Jon wilted. “But the broom is so humiliating,” he whined. “I hate the broom.”</p><p>“Have you tried not forcibly extracting traumatic experiences from innocent Institute employees?”</p><p>“But so many of them have had encounters with the Fears. And I’m hungry…” </p><p>“What do you think this is, a McDonald’s? We have statements in the Archives. Much healthier for everyone.” </p><p>Jon opened his mouth, probably to protest, but when Basira mimed using the broom, he grumbled in agreement. Good, just the threat had worked. Definitely a relief, given she didn’t actually have a broom at the moment (the last one had ended up in several pieces courtesy of one of Melanie’s Slaughter-fueled temper tantrums, and Basira did <i>not</i> have the kind of budget for broom replacement). </p><p>—</p><p>Basira was minding her own business in the kitchen when Jon walked in and rudely interrupted her lunch with uncharacteristically happy fist-pumping. Basira looked away from the sandwich she was trying to eat in goddamn peace and narrowed her eyes at him quizzically. He glanced up from where he was staring intently at his phone, apparently just noticing she was in the room.</p><p>“Ah, Basira, sorry to disturb you. I’m just glad because another one of the tape recorders sold, for around a hundred pounds.”</p><p>Ever since Jon had gotten back, the recorders had started manifesting in droves around him, and he was taking full advantage of this by selling them on eBay to whatever weirdo collectors were in the market for creepy haunted tape recorders. One wouldn’t think there’d be much demand for—that, but there seriously was. Business was booming, somehow, and Basira was really considering starting to sell on the side too if the demand was really there.</p><p>“Who’s even buying those things?” she asked, in a completely inconspicuous attempt to discover the consumer market. </p><p>“Hm, I actually haven’t been keeping track.” Jon squinted and tapped at his phone for a few seconds, his brow furrowing. “....It seems to be all the same user, now that I’m taking a closer look. Username of, er, el-e-yees?”</p><p>Basira frowned. “Let me see that.” </p><p>Jon handed the phone over dutifully. Indeed, all the tape recorders (going back for weeks) had been bought by a user named eleyeas — god fucking damn it. “Jon,” Basira said, very calmly, “I think Elias has been buying all the tape recorders you’ve been selling on eBay.” This explained the inordinately large market. Basira’s brilliant side business ideas shriveled and died. </p><p>“I—<i>what</i>? How is that even possible? How does he have Internet access in jail? Did he escape? What does he want with them? Is this some kind of twisted Beholding ritual?” he asked, growing increasingly loud and panicked. </p><p>Before Basira could attempt to pull him out of his rapid downward spiral, Melanie stalked into the kitchen with a large package in her arms. “I almost tripped over this stupid package coming into the Archives. Addressed to you. Better not be something cursed again.” She tossed it onto the tiny kitchen table, narrowly missing Basira’s sandwich and blatantly ignoring the large FRAGILE stamps literally covering the box, and stomped back out of the kitchen. </p><p>“S-Should we open it?” Jon said, inspecting the label tentatively, apparently knocked out of his burgeoning panic attack by this new development. “There’s no return address, always a great sign.”</p><p>“I mean, I guess. Just be careful. God only knows what’s in there.”</p><p>Jon split the tape at the top with one of Melanie’s knives that had been sitting on the counter (they were scattered all over the Archives like Melanie was some kind of pet that shed knives instead of fur) and pried open the flaps. “You have <i>got</i> to be kidding me.”</p><p>Basira peered over his shoulder. The box was filled to the absolute brim with stacks upon stacks of tape recorders. Her business plan burst back to life like a glorious phoenix. </p><p>“I hate the bastard, but you’ve got to admit, that’s dedication.” </p><p>—</p><p>Someone cleared their throat in the middle of the Archives very quietly. Ah, so Martin had deigned to show up. Basira reluctantly put down her book and met his eyes. </p><p>“Yes, Martin?” she said, trying not to let too, too much irritation bleed into her tone. </p><p>“Er, yes, I just have something to tell everyone.”</p><p>“Well, Melanie’s right behind you. Jon’s in his office, let me get him.” Basira straightened up in her chair. “JON,” she yelled at the closed door of his office.</p><p>A few moments later his door opened a crack, a single eye peeking out. “<i>What do you</i> — ohhh, hey Martin!” Jon threw the door open the rest of the way and made his way into the Archives proper in an exaggeratedly casual manner. “How—is it going?”</p><p>“Oh my god, would you guys just kiss already?” Melanie piped up. “The tension in here is literally suffocating me.”</p><p>Jon and Martin flushed in unison and began stuttering out various extremely unconvincing denials and vicious attacks on Melanie’s character (the latter was mostly Jon). </p><p>“Enough. Martin. What is it that you had to call everyone in here for?” Basira asked, flashing Melanie a glare for making this last any longer than it had to.</p><p>“Ah, er, well, erm—”</p><p>“Martin.”</p><p>“Right, yes, fine. It’s just, Peter told me to tell you all that you have to stop going out for lunch together, because apparently that ‘encourages camaraderie’ and ‘improves morale.’”</p><p>“Martin, how many times have we been over this? You know Peter isn’t real,” Basira said, sighing deeply. </p><p>“But he’s standing right there?” Martin said, sounding confused and almost hurt, and pointed to an absolutely empty patch of air near the entrance to the Archives. </p><p>“I thought you were a good liar, but this is just pathetic,” Melanie said, stroking one of her knives absent-mindedly like it was a housecat. Basira shook her head sadly in agreement. </p><p>“Oh Martin, don’t worry. Sometimes we all imagine terrible things that aren’t there. But everything is going to be okay!” Jon said supportively, reaching up to pat Martin’s shoulder awkwardly.</p><p>“Fuck,” said Martin softly, with feeling. He shrugged off Jon’s hand and began to trudge back out of the Archives, tendrils of fog trailing after him like sad, lonely streamers. Jon shrugged like, I tried, and retreated towards his lair (though he did pause at the door to stare after Martin longingly for a few moments).  </p><p>Well, that had been a great waste of several minutes. Basira reopened her book and resumed reading, but if she’d been paying attention, she might have heard the empty air by the Archives door admonishing Martin on his highly unprofessional behavior. </p><p>—</p><p>For the first time in ages, they had a live statement giver. Basira had run into him in the main foyer coming back from lunch at the curry place across the way, and out of the kindness of her heart had taken it upon herself to guide him down to the Archives. He had tried to make a bit of small talk, which she had obviously stymied with one-word answers like a normal person, and now he was silent as they approached the Archives door. The faint sound of an argument drifted out into the hallway, which was just typical. Perish the thought anyone in the Archives could function like adults without Basira babysitting them literally 24/7. </p><p>Despite the increasingly confused and slightly fearful look in the statement giver’s eyes (she thought he’d said his name was Mark, maybe?), Basira ushered him through the door and into the Archives. </p><p>Which was a mistake.</p><p>The argument had (predictably) been between Melanie and Jon, the former of which had been using a statement pinned to the far wall for target practice, at least judging by the cluster of handles sticking out of what might have once resembled a piece of paper. Both trailed off their simultaneous verbal tirades and turned around as Basira and Mark entered, as did Martin, who was standing in the middle of the room looking distressed and somewhat more like a ghost than a living man. </p><p>All three of them stared at Basira and Mark. Jon’s gaze in particular could be described as that of a starving man staring at the world’s juiciest steak. Mark stared back at all three of them, his eyes flicking around the room. “You know what…” he said slowly, backing towards the door, “actually, I’m sure what I saw was just, er, too much alcohol! Yes, so sorry to bother you! I’ll be going now!”</p><p>He reached the door, smiled unconvincingly, and turned sharply. Moments later, Basira heard his running footsteps echo down the hallway back towards the stairs.</p><p>“Melanie,” snarled Jon, rounding on her once more, “how could you scare that poor meal — I mean <i>man</i> — away like that?”</p><p>“What, sad you don’t get to slurp all the trauma out of his brain? You were the one staring at him like you wanted to eat him. That’s probably what scared him,” she shot back indignantly. </p><p>“I don’t want to <i>eat</i> him, obviously, I’m not an animal,” Jon said, sounding simultaneously offended and horrified. “I just want to taste the terror that marinates his every muscle and permeates the very marrow of his bones.”</p><p>“LITERALLY HOW IS THAT BETTER?”</p><p>Martin vanished entirely at that, which, understandable. Basira once again desperately wished she had convenient Lonely powers too. </p><p>“<i>Hey</i> now,” she cut in instead. “Break it up. It’s both your faults, okay? Happy?”</p><p>“<i>NO</i>,” they yelled in unison. </p><p>“In fact, Basira, why didn’t you warn us before you brought a statement giver down here? If we had advanced warning, he wouldn’t have been scared away at all. So I think this is actually your fault,” Jon continued thoughtfully.</p><p>“Hey, that’s right,” said Melanie, clearly relieved by the easy scapegoat. </p><p>“Don’t make me get the broom,” Basira said darkly. </p><p>Jon and Melanie shrunk back and shuddered. They shared a significant look for a moment, then looked back at Basira.</p><p>“I believe the best course of action might be to get back to work and pretend none of this ever happened. Don’t you agree, Melanie?”</p><p>“Wholeheartedly, Jon. Brilliant idea, as always.”</p><p>They went their separate ways, and Basira sunk into her desk chair with a sigh, opening the same book she’d been trying to read for the past several weeks (generally unsuccessfully, due to the staggering rate of interruptions).</p><p>Just another goddamn day in the Archives.</p>
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